


The Spark of Fire

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [47]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coercion, Dancing, F/M, Friendship, Kabuki - Freeform, Kimono, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: [Set prior to the beginning of the series]  Hisana seeks comfort from a fellow oiran and a kabuki performer and is tricked into performing a dance at the festival.  The dance does not please everyone in attendance....
Relationships: Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [47]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Spark of Fire

When Hisana remerges from the Konoe kimono collection, the sun has long since plunged below the horizon. Stars now hang, twinkling brightly in the darkened sky. The air, too, hangs thin, almost crisp. The winds of winter are pushing the heat of summer to autumn, Hisana thinks, taking a step down into the street below.

Yua’s loving chignon is completely undone now. Inky waves trail down her back and over her shoulders. The red kanzashi hairpin is tucked lovingly in an inner pocket of the cherry blossom kimono. Its weight draws a pang. A lie spared it tonight, but she wonders for how long she can keep it.

Hisana avoids the kiosks and bodegas bearing her image as she sifts through the throngs of bodies. Tonight has become too invasive, too _heavy_ , for her to take scornful delight at this undeserved popularity. The sketches and portrayals would sting; potent reminders that she has no control over what, or who, consumes or profits from her.

Hugging her chest and rubbing warmth into her arms, Hisana remembers that she is here and that she has suffered worse. She only needs a moment. An indulgence. A kind word. A friend.

She knows exactly where to find all four things at once….

The stench of cooked meats—some burned, others charred—along with the pungent odor of rice and plum wine and heady liquors tells Hisana that the party outside is only just beginning.

Which is good.

She has time yet to steal from her fellow confederates in all things ill-planned, Tojuro and Okuni. Tojuro won’t be performing just yet. If she hustles, she can make it to his theater in time. And, if she’s fortunate, Okuni will be there waiting, urging him to perfection.

Unfortunately, the kabuki district is _predictably_ a crush. Bodies, hot and sweaty, sway and stagger. Some drunk. Some wealthy. All clamoring to make the only showtime for the event.

Hisana is petite and quick enough to thread her way through the crowd. She bobs, weaves, and shoves herself forth to the side door entrance of Saruwakaza, the first and most esteemed of the kabuki theaters in the Floating World. 

Three knocks summon one of the attendants for the night. He slides the door back, letting the bright yellows of the theater escape out onto the street, temporarily blinding Hisana for a moment. Blinking back the sting of light, Hisana realizes that the man standing before her is wholly unfamiliar. _New._ In a rumpled state of dishabille—half dressed, half made up, for a performance—he _glowers_ at her. His raven hair is tied back in a severe bun, and his thin, barely-there brows bunched together, as if demanding that she answer for her intrusion.

“You know the deal,” he murmurs and jerks his head up, as if his assessment of Hisana has proven _wanting._ With a snap of his wrist, he unfurls his fan quickly, waves it in front of his face, and then stuffs it into his belt, an oily shade of chartreuse. 

Hisana frowns. She was expecting Ese. He always greeted her with a warm smile and waved her on. No questions asked. No tokens of appreciation required.

But, with this _new guy_ she needs a damned fan to gain entrance. It’s the price of admission for oiran to sneak in through the side. And, it’s one of the few things she doesn’t have on her person.

“Those rules don’t apply here,” she purrs, chin pulled down, and eyes open wide, batting them prettily. When she catches his gaze, she opens her shoulders a little and tilts her head to the side. Her reiatsu snakes out, twirling around the little bit of spirit he possesses. She yanks at the threads of his attention; her essence braiding through his until his focus latches onto her. 

The sharpness of his gaze eases. His eyes cloud—like breath heating frosted glass—and his shoulders slant against the wooden lip of the door. He leans closer into her pull. 

All she requires is just a crucial second or _two._

“I’m a friend of Tojuro,” she explains with a gentle smile, releasing her hold on him. Her reiatsu retracts like the morning smoke billowing off idle water.

The bright glint rushes back into the man’s eyes. He lifts his head and arches a brow. “Tojuro has _plenty_ of friends. He doesn’t need another tonight. Fan or go.” He jerks his chin up, in the direction of the heaving crowd behind her.

Hisana lets out a little huff. “Just a fan, _right_?” 

“Always a fan, lady.” His fingers dive to his belt, ready to fetch his fan, likely to give her an object lesson. When they find nothing but the silk belt wrapped around his waist, he startles.

“Like this one?” Flicking the leaves open, Hisana brings the man’s fan to her face. The well-timed fluttering mostly obscures her cat-ate-the-canary grin. The mischief catching in her eyes, however, is unmistakable. 

The man folds his arms against his chest. Bemused, he hesitates for a moment before taking a small step away from the threshold, allowing her just enough room to _squeeze_ inside.

“ _Rukongai_ , I take it?” asks the man with a smirk.

Never before has Hisana heard her homeland spoken with such affection. She twirls the fan shut and returns it to the man’s belt. “Through and through,” she sings sweetly, stepping past him and into the narrow passageway. 

“Tojuro’s in his rooms,” the attendant’s voice chases her down the hall.

Hisana offers him a polite nod of the head. She knows. Three paces in and she can already hear Tojuro and Okuni _tittering_ away near the backstage area. 

The silvery sounds of raucous laughter seep through the rice paper, drawing Hisana’s anticipation as she reaches the door. Her fingertips lightly push the door to the side. Golden light spills across the hall, and relief, pure and sweet, surges through her at the sight of her friends-in-arms.

“Hisana!” Okuni cries from her colorful puddle of turquoise, violet, and ruby-red silks. Tojuro joins in, eyes brightly shining and smile inching across his face.

The moment Hisana steps from the shadows lingering in the hallway, however, their collective enthusiasm strangles, curling up and dying.

“ _What happened to you?_ ” Replacing Okuni’s heady revelry is a look of shocked concern. Her eyes widen, and, without hesitation, she is on her feet. Feet that take short, quick steps to Hisana. 

Tojuro, too, jumps up from his silken pillow, and he turns to the rows of hidden panels behind him. The wood clatters as he slams them open and shut, in clear search for a solution to whatever problem Hisana has unwittingly brought with her.

“Oh, dear,” Okuni murmurs, shuffling closer. Her sooty black brows, pinch together, and her blue eyes shine with worry. “It was Tadahiro, wasn’t it?” Her tapered fingers comb through ragged ends of Hisana’s locks. “What happened?” Carefully, she brushes a stray tress from Hisana’s eyes.

A cold pit sticks in the back of Hisana’s throat. They know. There is no point in pretending among the best of the pretenders. Kabuki actors and courtesans have a sixth sense for detecting falsity, especially falsity drenched in trauma. 

“--eh, that kimono!” Okuni interjects, eyes roaming each painted detail in the fabric. She sways lightly, heavily perfumed with the scent of plum wine. “It’s a month out of season. Did your mistress force you into these silks?” This time it’s Tojuro’s righteous indignation that draws Hisana’s ire.

“Obviously not,” Hisana mumbles, eyes trailing to Tojuro. He is tearing through his personal belongings, mostly clothes gifted to him from his numerous admirers. Bits of silk and gauzy muslin float through the air behind him. He has already observed the slight of her kimono and is set on the task of correcting it.

Realization smooths Okuni’s face, and she inclines her head. “Tadahiro did this, didn’t he? To humiliate you?”

Hisana steps around her friend and goes to the little table set with cups and a bottle of plum wine. Wordlessly, she fills an empty cup and drains it. She does this three times in quick succession. Each shot of liquor stings, starting in her mouth before setting fire to her throat. This wine isn’t a vintage from the Third; it’s too strong. Almost fortified. Probably another gift from one of Tojuro’s devotees.

Nonetheless, it does nothing to settle the humiliation burning across her chest and back. 

Hisana levels a weary gaze at Okuni. “Yes,” she says, pouring a fourth cup. “I was in a lovely scarlet kimono. My hair was up and decorated. And then,” she takes a small sip of the wine. Words fail her, and she makes a small gesture to the cherry-blossom kimono.

Neither Okuni nor Tojuro move an inch. Confusion clouds their faces for a few long moments. Okuni, however, is the first to break. “Tadahiro,” she says the name with such venom, lips sinking into a frown. Vaguely, she draws a half-hearted figure-eight with her finger, shaking her head. “What a bastard.”

Tojuro stops his frantic search to give a long shake of his head. “Pisses me off what these nobles think they can get away with.”

And, there it is. The rub. The unifying trauma that brings them together. The nobles think they can get away with murder because they _can_. The bodies of whores and performers whose lives were ended prematurely by the cruelty of a noble could fill the Floating World one-hundred times over. Nothing ever happens. Nothing will ever happen. No opprobrium. No shame. Nothing ever approaching justice.

It was merely the cost of doing business. And what a profitable business it was, filling the time of a group of people who had the luxury of time to waste.

“Putting an oiran in an out-of-season kimono and tearing out her hairpins. What an asshole. Tell me that he didn’t make you submit to him at the event,” Okuni’s voice drives into Hisana’s side like a dagger.

Hisana doesn’t answer. She had no other choice. In that moment—trapped against Tadahiro—she felt her life was dependent on unyielding submission. 

Perhaps it was an irrational fear. 

Would he have strangled her at his event? She was in a back room. No one knew where she was. He had guards outside; that much she knew, as it had been one of his guards to escort her to the room. It would’ve been easy, killing his fox. She would’ve been disposed of somewhere. The diverted fingers and inlets of the river were a perineal favorite dumping ground for the bodies of unfortunate girls and boys. 

No one would’ve cared or inquired after her disappearance. Just another dead whore. Another coin in the bottomless pit of the noble’s vanity. 

These thoughts grow louder in her head. White noise blaring, intensifying with each new heartbeat, blotting out the conversation between Okuni and Tojuro. Unable to focus, Hisana moves onto her sixth cup. Before she can refill her cup, Tojuro snatches the bottle off the table and hands it to Okuni, who appears at his side.

“Here,” he squawks triumphantly, “what about this?” He unfurls an orange and yellow woman’s kimono depicting cranes flying into a sunset. His gaze shoots over to Okuni, who is refilling Hisana’s cup before her own.

Tojuro frowns disapprovingly.

Okuni barely gives it a glance. “Too orange. It’ll clash,” she says, sucking a drop of wine from her thumb.

“Clash with what?” he protests, hand on hip. “It’s perfect. It cries out summer!”

Okuni shakes her head dismissively. “Exactly. It’s so obvious. Tell me that you didn’t buy that with your own money, please.”

Tojuro lifts a well-shaped brow, tucking his chin to his neck. “Of _course_ ,” he finally says, the last word leaking from his mouth with the sound of a deflating balloon.

“ _Precisely_ ,” Okuni whines between sips, “our patrons are all such obvious turnip-heads. They have no appreciation for style, fabrics, or textiles. I mean, look at poor Hisana, stuck in a springtime kimono almost two seasons out of date!”

“I’m fairly certain Tadahiro is no rube in this instance,” Hisana mutters, downing what remains of her wine.

This observation sends Tojuro back to his makeshift closet. Brightly-colored handkerchiefs and scarves flutter through the air before floating into a messy pile of fabric collecting at his feet. 

Okuni draws to Hisana’s back, and, without warning, begins plucking at her ties. “I’m fine,” Hisana murmurs, wiggling out of Okuni’s gasp. “It’s fine. The kimono is lovely, and no one is going to see me for the rest of the night to pass judgment on whether it’s in season.”

“Yeah, no,” Tojuro protests, not sparing Hisana a passing glance. “Not tonight, at least. You need to look your best.” Dark expectation smokes through his voice, and Hisana stiffens.

“Tojuro?” she calls, pleadingly, mind swimming with alcohol, but still keen enough to hear the telltale signs of a favor in its nascence. 

He glances askance at her. His lips twitch slightly. “Just a backup, Hisana. Just in case.” 

“Just in case of what?”

“We need another dancer to perform an interlude.”

“Really?” She is seven cups deep. Much longer and she might not be able to keep straight.

“It’s Oniji; he’s new and well . . . he gets sick before dress-rehearsal. No way he’s going to handle his first performance being on this scale. Especially given the _competition_ between the theaters.”

Hisana scoffs at this. Tojuro isn’t _wrong_. The kabuki event isn’t really so much a coherent play performed by one of the theaters. It’s a medley, with each of the four established theater houses competing to vie for the approval and attention of the nobles and wealthy merchants.

“The boy needs to learn to master those nerves,” Hisana mutters, glancing back at Okuni, who she is reluctantly allowing to help her out of the cherry-blossom kimono. 

“Yes, he does,” Tojuro agrees under his breath, “but not tonight with the honor of our theater on the line. I can just see the headlines now.” He pauses and dramatically gestures to the middle distance, like he is painting a landscape. “Saruwakaza Performer Projectile Vomits on Ginrei Kuchiki: Casualties Number in the Thousands,” he pauses, hand gracefully closing, “because _you know_ this kid would puke on the scariest member of the Five.”

“Okuni, can’t?” Hisana begins, desperately. Hot panic sweeps over her at the prospect of performing _drunkenly_ in front of the nobility, gentry, and soldiers of the ranks.

“Listen, I’ll pick up dancing when you learn to play the shamisen to public approval,” Okuni growls. “Gods, he really stitched you into this thing,” she groans, sucking in a sharp breath.

Hisana sighs, picking at one of the knots that keeps her obi tied. Tadahiro was making a point with this kimono; she just wishes she understood exactly what point he was trying to convey.

Why cherry-blossoms? Why spring? Infernal man.

“Here, _finally_ ,” Okuni heaves a long breath after working the last knot undone. The scratchy sweet sound of silk rustling against itself fills Hisana’s ears as the dress slips from her shoulders. 

Reduced to her cotton under-robe, Hisana’s arm shoots out to catch the kimono before it drops to the ground, but Okuni is swifter. The pinks, reds, and burnt ambers cascade from the bend in her arm.

“Don’t worry,” Okuni shushes the choir of worry beginning to strike up in Hisana’s mind, “I’ll make sure it gets to the Peony House. Wouldn’t want your Auntie to put the cost of this _thing_ on your ledger.”

Hisana’s lips part, and her heart picks up speed. It isn’t the absence of the gown that has struck a nerve; it’s the red kanzashi tucked into the folds of the kimono. “Um,” she murmurs, reaching for the dress.

Okuni slaps her hand away. “No more picking at this wound, Hisana. You’ll never have to wear this curse again.”

“It’s my hairpins,” Hisana continues, words hot and thick in her mouth. 

Okuni waves the concern away before Hisana can finish. “They’ll make the journey. Trust me.” Before Hisana can wrest the dress away, Okuni has gone to the door to signal for one of Tojuro’s child attendants, who takes the gown with a word and quick nod.

Hisana stands mortified. So this is how she loses the kanzashi. At least it is at the hands of _friends_.

“How about this?” Tojuro’s voice yanks her attention to the back of the room, where he stands unfurling what looks to be a Shihakusho. It isn’t a perfect replica; owning such a garment without being a member of the Gotei 13 is a high crime. It’s approximation, however, is astounding. The silk is finer, glossier than the original article, and sweeping from the left shoulder to the right hip are red-painted leaves, a hint of autumn.

“Ooo,” Okuni hums, shuffling closer to inspect the fabric. Intrigue catches in her eyes before spreading across her face, turning her cheeks rosy with possibility and lengthening the line of her wine-soaked lips. She brings one of the long sleeves to her face. Her thumb runs over a few of the painted leaves, and she nods approvingly. “What sort of dance were you thinking of?” she asks Tojuro.

“A lover’s dance.” He glances sidelong at Hisana. “A dead lover’s dance.” The ruthless glint that burns in his eyes urges her to rejoice in the symbolic revenge on the man who did her wrong.

But, her mind drifts to another imagined love story with another man. Her heart bucks in her chest. No. The last thing she wants to do is perform a lover’s tale. She hasn’t the strength or mental fortitude.

“Perfect!” Okuni claps her hands excitedly. “And her hair? I’m thinking we should pull it straight back. Like Kenpachi Azashiro used to wear.”

Hisana’s eyes fly to Okuni. “Wasn’t he apprehended by the Royal Guard for _treason_?”

Okuni shrugs a shoulder. “Man had good judgment.”

Tojuro nods approvingly, tossing a comb to Okuni, who catches it with ease. She smiles sinisterly the moment her eyes meet Hisana. “I have wanted to do this for _so long_!”

Hisana can only guess at her meaning, but since Okuni is two heads her better in height, she submits to the rough strokes of the comb being raked through her tangled locks. 

“How long have you been plotting this, Tojuro?” Hisana’s voice hardens.

He smooths the taunting offense from his face, brandishing an innocent smile with the speed and decisiveness of a soldier drawing a sword. “Plotting? Whatever do you mean?” the words come as sweet as spun sugar. 

“Since yesterday afternoon,” enters a baritone that blows a chill down Hisana’s spine. She rips her head to the side. Inky locks spill from Okuni’s hands as both women turn to find Captain Shunsui Kyōraku standing in the door donning his gaudy pink woman’s kimono and bright turquoise obi.

His appearance at the theater, even in the backstage areas, isn’t that shocking. The Captain shares a kindred spirit with the performers, the poets, and the artists, and his family wealth is put to good use at Saruwakaza theater, earning them a stake in the house’s profits. 

Rumor has it that his zanpakuto’s physical manifestation is that of an oiran. 

“Out!” Okuni cries, pointing to the hall behind him, “No men allowed.”

Tojuro bristles slightly at Okuni’s remark.

“No _heterosexual men_ allowed,” she swiftly adds. “Hisana is indecent.”

Captain Kyōraku braces his shoulder against the doorframe wearing an arch expression. Mischief dances in his eyes when he returns Okuni’s stare. “Fairly presumptuous, no?”

“It’s fine,” Hisana murmurs under her breath. She has spent all girlish virtue long ago. “How did the good Captain fare in the senryū tournament?” Hisana looks away, knowing all too well he won. He always won at senryū. Every year.

“Well.” His earthen voice practically _beams_. 

“Care to share the winning poem?”

“Hisana!” Tojuro chastens her, and she smirks. 

It must have been provocative.

“A butterfly that goes straight has free time,” he says quietly.

“That was _not_ the winning poem," Tojuro crows with the self-satisfied look of a man who was in the room where it happened.

“I imagine not!” Okuni protests, “The Captain’s skills are good, but he’s no Kahō.”

“The lady knows Kahō,” says Captain Kyōraku, approvingly. “I’ll remember to select something more obscure next time I lie.” There is a mocking lilt to his tone.

“How did you know that wasn’t the winning poem, Tojuro?” Hisana snaps at her friend, eyes narrowed. 

Folding the ersatz shihakusho in his arms along with a crisp white underlayer, the kabuki actor shoots her a placating look.

“Is it because you were _plotting_ this moment during the senryu tournament?” she asks pointedly.

His smile weakens at the corners.

How humiliating! Her name being tossed around while a bunch of faceless men traded dirty poems. Oniji must be a disaster for it to come to this.

“Indeed. We were all coming up with an excuse to convince you to dance for us,” Captain Kyōraku observes slyly. 

Hisana gapes for a rare dumbfounded moment. “What?” she asks, searching the Captain’s face.

He gives her a small nod. “You only dance publicly at the Cherry Blossom Festival in the Seireitei. Most of the merchants, however, cannot attend that event, and are they ever pissed about it.”

It’s true. Hisana rose to acclaim as an oiran for her dancing in her younger days, but, after those first few years, her engagements precluded the public events, which did not pay as well as private patrons.

“Is Oniji _real_?” Hisana asks Tojuro, pinning him with a glare.

Tojuro raises both hands, palms facing Hisana, and gives an abashed chortle. “I wasn’t lying about Oniji,” he says, crossing the room to help Okuni dress her in the costume.

“That’s why I’m here, actually,” says the Captain. “I’m informed by the theater that the interlude is soon, and Oniji is nowhere to be found.”

Tojuro’s shoulders sink at this news, and he lets out a long breath. “I hope he isn’t doing something rash.”

“We can finish up here, if,” Hisana says, feeling a pang of guilt for the young boy. She knows the feeling of failure well enough, and the devastation it can spell.

Tojuro gives a firm nod of his head and squeezes Hisana’s shoulder. “I owe you one,” he says.

No, he doesn’t. Hisana is more than happy to recruit both Tojuro and Okuni into her hairbrained schemes, most of which involve narrow escapes involving onerous etiquette. She owes him more than he imagines.

Okuni puts the finishing touches on the costume. A tug on the collar. A red ribbon wraps the elastic tie in her hair; the ends of the ribbon stream through her long ponytail. 

When Hisana turns to give the Captain a glimpse, she expects him to say something trite. He doesn’t. He observes her for a long moment, ushering in paralyzing silence.

“Well?” Okuni finally prompts him.

“You’re missing something important,” he remarks, stroking his chin. His gaze lingers on Hisana’s hip.

“Oh,” mumbles Hisana, her hands running over the wrinkles near her hakama-himo. “I didn’t think to bring a fan.” 

He chuckles warmly at her. “A fan is a fine weapon for a lady; less practical for a soldier.” Carefully, he withdraws one of his sheathed zanpakutō.

Thoughtlessly, Hisana reaches out to take the sword, but, realizing what she is doing—what this entails—her fingers curl into the soft pads of her hands. Her nails sink into her skin, a prickle to bring her back to reality. 

_What is she thinking?_ She absolutely cannot accept a Captain’s zanpakutō for a _prop_. 

“I can’t,” comes the protest on a broken breath. “But thank you.” Hisana attempts a bow, but he won’t let her reject his offer, taking her hand and placing the hilt against her palm.

“Katen, won’t lead you astray tonight.” 

Hisana’s cheeks burn, and she knows she is flushing ruby-red under the directness of his gaze. Her heart flutters with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. Suddenly, what felt like an unexpected inconvenience now feels like a crushing burden. 

She cannot fail to meet expectations tonight. 

“Plus,” he says, eyes flitting to a corner of the room, “you’re doing me a favor.”

Hisana’s brows raise. _How?_

“It’s almost the end of the festival, and I haven’t sent the Captain-Commander into a blinding rage at me yet.” He glances over at Okuni, who is giggling into the fabric of her sleeve.

“This will definitely do that,” he adds sheepishly.

Hisana nearly faints.

. . . .

The excitement from the last spectacle begins to diminish, washed away by the sudden darkness that descends over them. The theater turns into a sunken place, a cavern.

Byakuya shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The sudden darkness combines with the suffocation of being caught between two obstacles. The obstacle on his left sits with back ramrod straight. While his grandfather has foregone the white haori of his Captain’s rank along with the blacks of the Shihakusho, he is no less carrying the weight of his station. His expression inscrutable. His eyes cut an icy gaze toward the stage. Nothing has moved him during the entire performance. He watches boredly, likely having suffered similar simulacrums of this performance hundreds of times over.

Briefly, Byakuya wonders if his grandfather was ever moved by a piece. Any piece. Music. Dance. Theater. Poems. Art. A quick catalog of his grandfather’s private quarters yields nothing. Not even a scroll comes to mind. All Byakuya remembers of his grandfather’s chambers is endless square-feet of sterile zen emptiness.

On Byakuya’s right sits Lady Suiko Heishi, positioned in stark contrast to Ginrei Kuchiki. She assumes the pose of rapt anticipation. Her eyes are open wide, staring eagerly ahead for what new amusement is to come.

She catches him staring at her, and she blushes. Unconsciously, he thinks, her fingers fly to the jade dragonfly pin in her hair. She is thinking of him, probably mistaking his gaze for something loving, something heart-felt.

Byakuya closes his eyes, takes a long breath, and waits for the strum of strings or the pounding of drums. Surely, one or both of those things will signal the beginning of the interlude. Maybe the next dance or performance will burn the frost from his heart. 

He is wrong. 

It isn’t the sound of drums or the plucking of a koto that reminds him to open his eyes. It’s the sound of gasps. It’s the whispering of fabric pulling against chairs and pillows as people lean closer.

Byakuya’s eyes fly open, and his attention first draws to his grandfather. His features are set in the patented Kuchiki austere expression, but, in the first of the night, the muscles in his jaw flicker under his gray skin. Something has reached him, and it doesn’t appear to be a welcomed intrusion.

It doesn’t take Byakuya long to discern at least one source of his Grandfather’s disapprobation, even if it does not trigger the same level of disgust in Byakuya. 

_Katen Kyōkotsu_ , or, one half of the duo is being used as a dancer's _prop_. The sword in use? _Katen_ , most likely.

His next observation, however, plunges him into a cold oblivion.

_Hisana._

He stares, mind unable to discern what has happened. How? Who? Her name appears nowhere in the program, and this night is the jewel of the kabuki theaters, each competing to demonstrate the supremacy of their talent and story-telling prowess. 

To dress a female dancer up in a soldier’s uniform—an oiran, at that—is certainly attention-grabbing, if nothing else. It is rare to see female kabuki performers now, especially given the local ordinances _prohibiting_ it. But, this is a medley, even if this section was being performed under the Saruwakaza name, maybe the ordinances have been suspended for the festival.

Byakuya stiffens, realizing that the dance she is performing is one with which he is intimately familiar. The perspective, however, has shifted. It is the story of the separated lovers, one that he has requested countless times for her to perform. She only has danced the piece from the perspective of the feminine lover, never the soldier.

He can’t focus. Can’t watch. Yet, as much as he tries to look away, he can’t. 

It is beautiful. Her lines and movements flow, like the inked brush of a calligrapher, writing the story of longing, painful yearning, and the winds of war that separate them. Pain crackles as he watches her. Diffuse. Broadband. It fills him, threatening to overflow, and he drinks it down. Every muscle in his chest and arm tensing. His fingers hook in the fabric of his green kimono, crumpling the silk into his palm. 

He knows the last motion of the dance he loves is her defeat at news of her lover’s death. The last pose, here, however stops his heart.

His poor heart.

The audience’s heart.

He thinks it even freezes Hisana, as she holds the pose one . . . two . . . three . . . beats longer than he thinks she will.

She points the naked blade to the audience. Her dying soldier’s fate is sealed, but he is defiant even in the face of death. The light of love, of longing, exists past death, in the heart of his lover. 

A snowy mixture appears to fall from the rafters, collecting on her still shoulders and in her raven locks. The ensuing artic blast proves engrossing, magical even. It also reveals that the falling snow isn’t mere white confetti being dumped out from a bucket. It’s kidou. 

Byakuya’s lips part. The reaction is involuntary, and one he instantly regrets when he catches the look that passes across his grandfather’s face. Ginrei’s eyes narrow, and his lips slope down. 

Byakuya inwardly chastises his overtness. His grandfather’s disapproval was earned. No one—especially Suiko—should know of his connection to Hisana. How deeply that connection goes, cutting him quicker to the bone than any blade. Careless, and he might jeopardize her safety, her position.

Before Hisana breaks her pose, cruel fate intervenes.

Their eyes meet for a mere second. The silvery tip of Katen’s steel finds his position in the audience, like a divining rod. Hisana lifts her head deepening their shared gaze, as if daring him to be the first to look away. Her expression is that of raw determination, transformative. She stands elevated, regal in the snowfall of kidou.

In that instant, he feels the heat of eyes on him, like a spotlight in the dark. Wantonly, he does not break his gaze. He presses further, pulling her reiatsu to him, relishing their intimacy even though they were separated by a mass of faceless spectators. 

Silent mortification, however, is strangled by a tide of thunderous applause.

Byakuya inhales a sharp breath, and he goes still. He glimpses the rosy color of his betrothed bleed from her cheeks as realization sets in. Her eyes widen, and her mouth parts. She stares at him, distress gathering in her emerald eyes.

He wonders if she is considering the extent of his treachery, if she is replaying the events of the night through a different lens. Indeed, she does not lovingly feel for her jade hairpin; her hands go cold in her lap.

With great trepidation, Byakuya witnesses his grandfather’s reaction from the corner of his eye. It is not what Byakuya expects. Not in the least.

Ginrei’s gaze is trained on Hisana, and a small, private smile curves his lips. 

. . . .

As soon as the bright lights die, Hisana flees from the stage as the next act sets up. Captain Kyōraku greets her backstage. 

“Thank you,” she says, bowing low and offering him his sword. “The snow was a nice touch,” she adds, feeling the weight of the blade slide from her hands.

“I always had a flair for the dramatic,” says the good Captain, sounding pleased with the part he played in the dance.

“Indeed,” comes the quiet, sonorous voice of a different captain. 

Hisana turns expectantly to find Captain Ukitake standing an arm’s length away.

“Scale of 1 to 10, how mad is Yamamoto?” Captain Kyōraku asks, brows jumping to his hairline.

Captain Ukitake smiles mildly at the question. “Solid 3.”

“Damn, I was hoping for a 5 at least.”

A nervous giggle squeezes from Hisana’s chest. “Well, I for one find 3 too high,” she teases.

Captain Ukitake gives her a small bow of his head. “A lovely performance, Miss Hisana.”

“Much appreciated, Captain.” Her bow is lower, and she bids both men well before beginning down the corridor.

“Do be careful out there, Miss Hisana,” Captain Ukitake calls after her. “There were quite a number of deflated faces at the end of the performance.”

She stops dead in her paces and glances over her shoulder.

The Captain offers her a quiet look of concern, leaving her imagination to piece together his meaning.

“Thank you.” She gives him another low bow before setting off.

 _What have I done?_ She wonders to herself.

She had to choose someone at the end of the dance. That’s how the female part always concludes. Katen had done the choosing part for her, just like the fan did when she played the lovestruck woman. 

It had to be Byakuya Kuchiki. Part of her knew that would be him. Her reiatsu felt tethered to his, always seeking it out, tangling in it, whenever he was near. It was a bad habit. Perhaps, if Captain Ukitake was to be believed, even _dangerous_.

Who would’ve taken umbrage, though? Tadahiro had been called away on business when she last left him, and he wasn’t going to make the performance. Further, with few exceptions, only those in the inner circles of the Floating World knew about her connection with the Kuchiki lord. Her mistress may have been cunning and ruthless, but she was _discreet_. It paid to keep the clients’ preferences hidden. They weren’t exactly going to advertise using the Kuchiki name.

When Hisana reaches the side door leading to the street, she discovers that at some point between entering the theater and now it began to storm. Sheets of rain—glistening like liquid metal—fall from the sky.

She hugs her chest and stares for a long moment. Deep puddles have formed in the holes of the road, and overflow laps the walkways. Such a mess. 

She doubts she can wait the rain out, and, if she wants to make it to the Peony House without fighting the crowd, she must do so now. 

Hisana bunches the excess fabric from the costume’s hakama in her fists, raising the hems some. She hesitates, not relishing the prospect of walking five blocks in sopping clothes.

“Rain makes everything more dramatic.” The voice that sounds from behind her freezes her blood in her veins.

She forgets how to breathe, how to move. She was so stupid. So very stupid. She doesn’t want to acknowledge him, doesn’t know what to say. 

In an instant, the span of an umbrella covers her, and she turns to the man offering her shelter. “Lord Captain Kuchiki,” she says, bowing low, reverently.

He is her benefactor, after all.

“I will take you home.” The words, benignly spoken, aren't to be taken lightly; they are issued like a command.

“I appreciate your generosity, Lord Kuchiki.”

“Undoubtedly.” 

With the barest of looks, he summons a covered litter. Keeping her dry under his umbrella, he helps her into the litter before taking a seat beside her. 


End file.
